"This makes the third time I’ve seen that blue van behind us," Starsky said as he looked into the rearview mirror. "I think they’re following us."

Hutch looked into his sideview mirror and shrugged. "Just a bunch of teenagers." He glanced at his watch. "Getting hungry?"

"I could go for Mexican."

"Authentic?"

"If that’s the only way to get you to eat Mexican."

"It is today."

"I could go for a taco salad."

Starsky pulled the Torino into the parking lot of Chili’s, an authentic Mexican restaurant, noticing that the blue van was now pulling in next to his car. Hutch saw Starsky glowering in the van’s direction. "You’re getting paranoid, partner."

Starsky spoke with his hand on the door handle and his eyes still on the vanload of teenagers next to him. "After Marcos last month I think I have a right to be."

Hutch saw Starsky’s eyes fixing on the driver, and suddenly regretted his remark. The memory of finding Starsky at the zoo was still vivid, and an even stronger dream of finding Starsky too late, slashed apart like a sacrificial animal, white and bloodless on Marcos’ altar, had haunted him every night. He could only guess what memories and dreams lay behind his partner’s eyes.

"Hey, Starsk. I was just kidding about that. I know you have a right to be suspicious. That’s our job, right?"

Starsky got out of the car. The teenagers were laughing and looking over a map.

"Hey," Starsky snapped in a surly voice as he pulled out his badge and motioned to the driver to roll his window down. "You boys lost? Because I noticed your van behind me three different times, and if I see it behind me again I’m gonna fix it so you won’t be able to drive for a year."

The driver was nonchalant. "Are you threatening a minor, Officer . . ?" Fishing for Starsky’s name.

"Detective David Starsky." He nodded his head in Hutch’s direction, where the blond saluted a casual salutation from his forehead with his Magnum. "And that’s Detective Hutchinson."

The driver, a teenager with hard-edge eyes, saluted back. "Heil, Hitler. Mein Kampf." He looked at Starsky. "Sure you feel safe with this Nazi dog by your side? Us Jew boys have to stick together, you know. We don’t need to be consorting with the enemy. How do you know he won’t stick you in an oven?"

Starsky was pulling the boy through the window by his shirt when Hutch jumped from the car and grabbed Starsky back, shoving him facedown on the Torino. "Don’t! It’s not worth it!" And over his shoulder to the boys: "You better get the hell out of here before I let him up!"

The driver laughed as he settled back under the steering wheel, unnecessarily smoothing the hair on his nearly shaved head. "See ya around," he said with a wink, then put the van in reverse and left with squealing tires.

Starsky growled into the hood of the car. "Are you gonna arrest me or what?"

Hutch still had him pinned. "Will you behave?"

"For now."

"Then I’ll let you go with a warning." Hutch pulled him upright and straightened his jacket.

Starsky glared after the van as it went down the street. "Why did you stop me?"

"Why? How about he’s a minor? You want an assault charge? Police brutality? And how about you don’t stop that kind of asinine behavior with violence?"

"You heard what he called you. I wasn’t gonna let him—"

"Did you get the license plate?"

"No. My face was on the car, remember? Did you?"

"No. I was too busy pulling you off that kid."

"Well that’s just great."

"They’re just kids, Starsky. Punk kids who want to stir up trouble, mix it up with the cops, have something to brag to their friends about."

"Punk kids who know about your German heritage, and my Jewish one."

"Starsky, I do have blond hair. That’s an easy assumption to make. And you don’t exactly look Swedish. They were guessing. So what? Just kids. Forget about it."

"But they were following us."

"No. You say they were following us. Maybe you are a little paranoid from Marcos after all."

"Maybe I am. But I’m gonna find out who those kids are, how they know us, and at the very least have a nice little chat with the driver’s father."

"Who probably fed those ideas to him all his life. Whose parents we probably arrested somewhere along the line and that’s how they know us."

"Lookit. You can be a victim all you want. You can look over it or minimize it, but I’m not. I’m gonna find out who they are and why they followed us."

"To get our goat, Starsky. Do you think if they were serious about hurting us they’d be so blatant about it? Man, I know you’re a little wary, and I know why, and that’s okay, but I don’t think we should waste our time tracking down juveniles."

Starsky’s eyes flashed anger and hurt. "Your safety’s a waste of my time? Remind me of that next time I take a bullet for you."

"Starsky, I didn’t mean—"

Starsky turned and stomped toward the entrance of the Mexican restaurant. Hutch went after him. "Starsky, come here. I’m sorry."

Starsky tromped toward the bathroom, Hutch behind him. To the gawking patrons: "Take a picture."

Hutch found Starsky gripping the edge of the sink and leaning over it.

"Starsky, you took what I said the wrong way. I think you went back to work too soon after Marcos. It’s affecting everything you do, everything I say to you. If we’re not careful—"

"You mean if I’m not careful."

"No. If we’re not careful—because I’m as responsible for your safety as I am for my own—we could both make a stupid mistake and get ourselves killed. All because we’re not focused."

"There’s ‘we’ again."

"It is ‘we’. Because you can’t concentrate on your job because of Marcos, and I can’t concentrate on mine because I’m worrying about you. So yes, it’s a definite ‘we’ that we are talking about here."

Starsky ran his finger absently across the porcelain sink. "What do you want me to do?"

Hutch looked at him in the mirror. "Talk to somebody. A therapist. Somebody."

"I talked to you. That’s enough for me."

Hutch smiled a little. "I appreciate the faith you place in me, but I’m not a professional. I’m your best friend, and that’s not the same. But I’m telling you that you need it. First the shooting in the restaurant, then the poison that that MOTHERFUCKER BELLAMY injected you with . . ." He stopped because his hands were shaking, and his voice was beginning to, and he didn’t want to lose it right now, he just wanted to get it out so he could help his partner. "And now Marcos. It has to be affecting you. You just don’t see it." He carefully licked his lips. "But I do."

"Okay," Starsky answered into the mirror. "If you want me to, I will. I’ll see somebody."

"No, Starsky, don’t do it because I’m asking you to. Do it because that’s what you need right now. I’m sick of coming so close to losing you so many times. I mean it. Literally sick. I could throw up right now. And here you are . . . here we are . . . right back on the job a month after Marcos grabbed you. Well, I’m putting the brakes on for both of us. Pulling the plug. It’s too dangerous to be working like this. I’ll talk to Dobey."

"All right. I said I’d do it, didn’t I?"

But still, Hutch had the feeling Starsky was doing it for him, not for himself.

Captain Dobey was briefing two older detectives when Starsky and Hutch stepped into his office unannounced.

Dobey scowled at them. "Don’t you believe in knocking? I’m busy here."

"We need to talk," Hutch said to the captain.

The seated detectives, Anderson and Bernstein, appeared disgruntled at having been interrupted and ignored by the two younger ones.

Dobey saw the way Starsky was avoiding eye contact by studying a plaque on the wall he’d seen a hundred times, and he saw the way Hutch was running a hand through his hair.

To the other detectives: "You’re excused."

"But what about the—"

"I said you’re excused. You can brief me later."

The two older detectives sighed harshly but nevertheless excused themselves.

When they were gone, Hutch pointed at Starsky as he spoke to his superior. "He needs some time off."

Dobey looked at Starsky. "What’s going on?"

Starsky still wasn’t looking at him. He shrugged. "I don’t know. Hutch thinks . . . I think I need some counseling."

"For?"

"You have to ask?" Hutch asked him.

"I offered more leave. You both said no."

"It was too fresh then," Hutch told him. "We were just wanting to get back to work to stay too busy to think about how close a call it really was. He needs more time."

"Then you do too."

"Why?"

"Because if it was important enough for you to come in here and ask for him, then it’s affecting you too. So I’m going to put you both on leave. Is a month long enough?"

Hutch looked at Starsky. "Maybe."

"If you need more time, let me know."

"Don’t worry, I will."

Starsky spoke, his eyes still averted. "Thanks, Cap." And he shot a mean look at Hutch. "I guess."

His deed finished, Hutch started to leave, but Starsky took his arm and stopped him with a gentle squeeze. "Hold it. We’re not done yet."

Hutch turned back. "What do you mean?"

Starsky spoke to Dobey instead of Hutch. "Cap, we ran into a van-load of teenagers today. They know Hutch is German—"

"My mother is," Hutch clarified.

"—half German," Starsky corrected. "And that I’m Jewish, and they were spouting slurs right and left at him."

Hutch threw up his hands. "See, Captain? This is exactly why he needs time off. Everybody’s a criminal now. Everybody’s a suspect. Everybody’s following us. Even a bunch of obnoxious but harmless teenagers."

"Catch the license plate?" Dobey asked.

"No, " Starsky replied as he threw Hutch another mean look. "Unfortunately I was distracted by an irate police officer. But it was light blue, panel sides, new model. Ford I think."

"I don’t have to run that van through DMV. I know who it belongs to."

Both detectives stared at him.

"The van belongs to Judge Meyers."

Starsky looked at his partner, then back at Dobey. "Does he have a kid?"

"A burr haircut and an earring?"

"That’s him."

Starsky started out the door. "I am definitely going to have a chat with that little jerk’s father."

Hutch followed him out into the squad room. "I thought we were going to forget about that?"

"No, you want to forget about that. I can’t. And I won’t."

"Starsky, it’s Judge Meyers’ son."

They headed down the hall for the elevator.

"I don’t care if he’s the Pope’s son, Hutch. Why are you takin’ this so lightly?"

Hutch shrugged. "I don’t know. I don’t let things like that bother me."

They stepped into the elevator and Starsky pushed the ground-floor button. "But if he’d said it about me, you’d have cold-cocked him, minor or no minor."

The elevator doors closed. Hutch looked down, and it was that gesture that told Starsky he was holding back.

"Hutch, come on. What is it?"

The blond head slowly shook no. "Nothing."

"It’s something."

"You’ll think I’m crazy."

"I’ve known that for a long time now, but go ahead."

Hutch finally looked up, his usually clear eyes cloudy. "It’s just . . . my mother is a full German. That makes me half. And I should be proud of that, but sometimes I don’t want to tell people because I’m ashamed of what the Nazis did to your people." He looked away again, his finding one of the buttons on the indicator panel.

"Hutch, you shouldn’t be ashamed of something you didn’t even do. You can’t help having German blood, any more than I can help having Jewish blood. And you know what? It’s okay to feel bad when people say stuff about you. I’ve been called a few names before. It doesn’t feel good, so don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. But I think we should talk to his father anyway. I don’t want to back down from this. We need to confront both of them. It probably won’t change anything, but it’s better to try than just sit back and let it go on. You’d confront him for me, wouldn’t you?"

Hutch looked at him. "You know I would."

"Then I’m gonna do it for you. It may not change anything, but it’s better to try than not to try. I’m not gonna sit back and let that go without a confrontation. And I promise I won’t slug anybody. I’ll fight with my mouth this time. Okay? We’ll go together."

"I can fight my own battles, Starsk."

"Doesn’t look like it to me."

Hutch was looking down at the floor now. "Starsky, I am asking you kindly. Please let this go for now. Do it for me."

Starsky studied his bowed head. He couldn’t figure out what was going on inside it, but he would respect Hutch’s wishes. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "I’ll drop it." He ruffled Hutch’s hair. "For now, Blondie. But one of these days we’re gonna talk to Judge Meyers and that fine specimen of a son of his."

Starsky leaned back against the elevator wall and changed the subject: "I feel like a kid being sent home from school for a stomach ache," he grumbled.

Hutch raised his head and smiled. "You look like a kid being sent home from school for a stomach ache. Trust me, Starsk. It’s for the best."

"I hear you, Doctor Hutchinson."

+++++++++++++++

Starsky pulled up alongside Hutch’s place to let him out. "I feel naked without a job."

"Put some clothes on," Hutch said as he got out of the Torino. "And you have a job: Getting your head on straight again so I can have my old partner back."

Starsky looked at his watch. "The Godfather is coming on TV in fifteen minutes. I gotta go."

Hutch shook his head no and looked in through the window at him. "No Godfather. You go straight to the Happy Hills Clinic and make an appointment."

Starsky laughed. "Happy Hills Clinic?"

"Well, whatever it’s called."

"You can’t deprive me of Pacino."

"Pacino? Give me a break. Brando’s king."

"Pacino."

"Brando."

"Pacino."

"You’re more important than both of them put together."

"Ah, gee, I think you like me a little bit."

Hutch slapped the top of the car. "Get out of here."

"Don’t hit my car."

Hutch grinned and started for his front door.

(A month later)

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other to keep from looking at the dead man.

The crime lab unit was busily gathering evidence in the modest, tastefully decorated living room.

A flashbulb flashed warm fire from the police photographer’s camera.

"I was hungry until now," Hutch told Starsky.

The dead man hung from the trendy ceiling rafter by his own necktie, his face lavender, eyes bulging, tongue dark and protruding.

Starsky sighed glumly. "Only thing I’d be able to keep down now would be a chili dog."

Dobey approached them.

"Well?" Hutch asked.

"I’m taking the case from Anderson and Bernstein and assigning it to you two. They aren’t getting anywhere. It’s not a suicide, he’s the fifth victim of a serial killer. All male. All professional people. No apparent motive. And all dead by hanging."

Detectives Anderson and Bernstein, older and more experienced than the younger detectives, stepped over to them, glowering.

"Boy wonders," Anderson said through a set jaw. "You want the case?" he asked as he dumped a stack of files at the younger detectives’ feet. "You can have it."

As Hutch bent down to pick up the files, Starsky said, "Hey, we didn’t ask for the case, but you’re right in worrying we might show you up."

"We usually do," Hutch said as he straightened and thumbed through the files.

"No lip," Dobey warned all four. "We do what we have to, to get the job done. We need to catch this killer before we have victim number six."

Anderson and Bernstein exited with a grumble under their breaths and a slamming of the front door. Dobey looked from Starsky to Hutch. "If you want respect, you have to give it. Especially when a case is re-assigned."

Starsky shrugged. "They started it."

"Anderson and Bernstein are good detectives. Burned out maybe. Not as thorough as they used to be. They’d rather be home watching a ballgame or firing up the grill, but they’re still good when they want to be. But they don’t go to the newest trainings like they should. I send you two to all those criminology courses because you’re still eager and committed. They don’t know how to latch onto a perp profile like you two, they don’t get the psychology of a serial killer."

Starsky looked at Hutch. "He’s complimenting us. He must be sick."

"I just want the bastard caught," Dobey explained. "I’d take the case away from you if I had to. The papers are having a ball. ‘Inept investigating.’ ‘Officers sitting on their hands while this killer gets away with it.’ And you know something?"

Starsky and Hutch listened to their captain.

"They’re right," Dobey concluded. "There’s no excuse for this man’s death. If we’d done our jobs, this wouldn’t have happened."

Dobey turned with his hat in his hand and put it on his head as he made his way to the front door.

Hutch nudged his partner’s arm. "I’ll be back," he said as he dumped the files into Starsky’s arms.

Starsky watched Hutch as he went into the kitchen where a female police officer sat consoling the widow of the latest victim at the kitchen table.

Hutch sat down with them and motioned with his head for the female officer to leave,

When the policewoman was gone, Hutch handed the elegant and bereaving older woman a handkerchief. "Would you like to step outside, Ma’am?"

From the corner of his eye he could see the men taking her husband’s body down, so he moved in the chair directly across from her to block her view.

The widow could only weep into the handkerchief.

Hutch licked his lips and opened his mouth to continue. "Mrs. Helmut, I know this is hard for you, and it’s not the best time, and maybe there’s never really a good time for this, but if my partner and I . . . " He motioned with his finger for Starsky to join him, which he did after depositing the file folders on the coffee table.

"Mrs. Helmut, this is my partner, David Starsky."

Starsky touched her shoulder and seamlessly picked up where Hutch left off, as if it were a natural thing to be able to read someone else’s thoughts."

"Mrs. Helmut, if we’re going to find your husband’s killer, we need to ask you some questions now. Time is crucial when dealing with a serial killer. And he will do it again unless we stop him."

Mrs. Helmut dabbed at her nose. "I understand," she said meekly. "Ask me anything."

Hutch handed her a card file. "These are the names of the other four victims. Do you know any of them?"

She read the names, then lifted her red-rimmed eyes. "No, I don’t."

"Did you see anyone hanging around the house?" Starsky asked her. "Did he mention anything about work? Or about being followed? Any new acquaintances? "

Mrs. Helmut shook her head no to all the questions.

"It’s very unusual for a serial killer to kill inside the victims’ own homes," Hutch told her. "That’s why we asked those questions."

"The door wasn’t forced," Starsky added. "So maybe your husband knew the killer and let him in."

The woman folded the tissue in her hands. "I knew it wasn’t suicide. Donald wouldn’t do that. We were happy, so I knew he wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . "

Hutch looked down at the card file, then up at Starsky. "All of these victims are Germans, or have German names."

Starsky took the card and read the names to himself. "Anderson and Bernstein didn’t catch that?"

Hutch rose to his feet. "Hell, Dobey didn’t even catch that. Let’s get these files down to headquarters and go over them."

Starsky squeezed Mrs. Helmut’s hand. "Not to be rude, but we gotta go. We’ll be in touch. If anything occurs to you that might be helpful, first write it down so you don’t forget it, then call our precinct."

Hutch produced a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "We’ll do what we can to find your husband’s killer, Mrs. Helmut."

"Thank you."

"We’ll be in touch."

Starsky and Hutch walked through the living room where the crime lab was just finishing up, picked up the file folders, then headed out the door.

"What an oversight," Hutch said as they nudged through a body of officers, reporters, photographers, and nosey neighbors on their way to the Torino.

Starsky was at his left elbow. "I think we just found our first lead."

Starsky cast a disheartened gaze over the files--photos, autopsy reports, victim profiles, crime lab reports, narratives, etc--that were spread out on the squad room table.

"Can't believe it took 'em five dead bodies to figure out it wasn't  suicide," Starsky grumbled. "Can't believe they didn't spot the German names."

Hutch was busy scribbling notes. "That's why Dobey took Anderson and Bernstein off."

"Dobey didn't know either."

"He only knows what detectives tell him, for the most part. He relies on us for the facts. What was he supposed to think?"

Starsky surveyed the photos. "Hung with their neckties. No ropes. No belts. No sheets. Is that important?"

"Everything's important."

"The killer wants everybody to see. The victims are on display. That's important to him. He wants an audience, right?"

"Very good, Inspector. Keep up the good work."

Starsky grinned. "Uh oh. Another compliment. You're not sick too, are you?"

Hutch tossed a paper wad at him. "I must be."

They'd been poring over the case in the squad room for three hours, discussing, exchanging ideas, taking notes, making phone calls to the families of the victims to schedule interviews--routine tasks in an investigation, but it was the tedious things which often led to a break in the case. Tedious things like all the victims having German names.

"Germans," Hutch said as he sipped some black coffee while pacing in front of the desk. "What is that? What does it mean to the killer?"

Starsky sat at the desk, dozing on folded arms on top of the pile of papers. "Hutch," he mumbled tiredly, "can we pick this up tomorrow? It's after midnight."

"Starsky, we're getting somewhere."

"You are. I'm in another dimension here."

"It's the German thing. It has to be. That's how we'll get him."

"So he hates Germans. Remember the Meyers kid? Who we still owe a house call to, by the way."

"Back to Germans. What else?"

Starsky still spoke with his head on folded arms. "He wants to get rid of them."

"Why? They're professional, decent people. Nothing shady in their backgrounds. Why would the killer want them dead above anybody else?"

"'cause they're Germans. Hutch, we said that twenty times."

"Why would he want Germans dead?"

"Hates 'em."

"Why?"

"Hate crimes. No reason. Just 'cause they're German. No reason."

"No, Starsky, there is a reason. Keep going."

"Hutch, I remember what my therapist said. The one you forced me to go to. He said to take care of myself, and above all, get enough sleep. Let's do this tomorrow. I like it, I think you got somethin', but man, my brain is fried."

Hutch was not a bit tired. This brainstorming session was energizing him. After a month of being away, he was raring to go again. But he had mercy on his partner.

"Okay," he relented as he finished the last of his coffee and patted Starsky on the back. "Let's go home."

But Hutch wasn't finished. He kept free-associating about the case as he drove a snoozing Starsky home.

"We've been thinking in terms of a single killer, Starsky. But what if there's more than one? Think hate crimes. Hate groups. KKK. Cults. Underground organizations. What kind of a group would you be in if you wanted Germans dead?"

The car was quiet for a long time as Hutch drove through town. He was thinking and Starsky was sleeping.

Or so Hutch thought. When he pulled up alongside Starsky's house to let him out, Starsky rubbed his eyes and looked at his partner. "There's only one group of people who'd hate Germans enough to kill 'em."

Hutch didn't answer, even though he knew what Starsky was going to say.

"Jews," came Starsky's simple but quiet answer. "Certain Jews."

"Certain Jews may want to balance the scales, in their minds. Seek revenge for the Holocaust. For what Hitler did to them. Surviving Jews or maybe even their children or grandchildren."

"Hutch, I don't want to think about that. We'd have heard about something like that."

"Not if it's brand new. And nobody wanted to think about what the Germans--Nazis--were doing to the Jews either. But it still happened. You said yourself that Jews were the only group of people you could think of who would want to see Germans dead."

Starsky rubbed his face. "A group of Jews giving Germans a taste of their own medicine?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"And they just go around picking Germans from a phone book?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they're more selective than that. Maybe these victims of ours have Nazis in their family tree."

Starsky stared at him. "Hutch, you're givin' me goosebumps. I'll never get to sleep now."

"I'm sure you'll manage. Get out of here."

Starsky got out of the car. "You're goin' home, right?"

"No, I'm going to the library to look up the victims' family trees. If my hunch is right, I'll find some Nazis in their branches."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You've got German blood. You got Nazis in your branches?"

"My mother would know. She never mentioned it."

"I can see why. Be careful, huh?"

"With a name like Hutchinson, nobody would know about my German blood."

"Judge Meyers' punk son knew."

"That's because Judge Meyers knows us. Nobody else would know that unless they researched it."

"That's easy to do. You're getting ready to research people, aren't you?"

"Starsky . . . " (You're getting paranoid again, is what he wanted to say, but he didn't. The therapy Starsky had agreed to attend seemed to help with some of the anxiety, but not all, and Hutch supposed Starsky would carry a little paranoia around with him like an unwanted souvenir. He had certainly earned it).

Starsky could not disguise the worry in his voice. It was too late in the evening for that. "You look German, Hutch."

Hutch smiled. "Are you worried about me?"

Starsky got into the car again. "I'm wide awake now. Come on. I'll go to the library with you. If there's even a library open this time of night."

"There is. UCLA campus. But we'll stop at the drugstore on the way and get you some smelling salts."

"Why?"

"Don't want you passing out when you see those walls and walls of books. It can be overwhelming."

"Okay, Professor Hutchinson. Better watch your mouth or I'll put the word out about your German roots."

In the quiet cubicle at the UCLA library, Starsky watched Hutch as he fed names into a computer program that searched family trees.

"My mother could help with this," Hutch said as he scribbled notes. "She wrote some articles for a paper that helped expose some of the Nazi activity."

Starsky grinned. "Your mom was a spy?"

"Not exactly. She dated several German officers who were opposed to what Hitler was doing."

"Oh, I see." He winked at Hutch. "Sure you're not full German?"

Hutch gave Starsky's ribs a playful poke with his pen. "Watch it."

Starsky looked at Hutch's notes. "Ever think about it, Hutch?"

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "About what?"

"You, me. German. A Jew."

"The Friendship Least Likely to Succeed? I don't know. I guess I thought about it a little."

"Did you? Like what?"

"Like how I could care less. And how sometimes it makes me ashamed of my German heritage when I think of what my people--"

"Some of your people."

"--did to your people."

"Don't be ashamed, Hutch. You didn't do anything wrong. You're not responsible for what your ancestors did."

Hutch stopped writing and looked at him. "Did you ever think about it?"

"Yeah. What a weird combination for a friendship. And how it doesn't matter to me."

"Did you ever hate Germans for what they did, Starsk?"

"Yeah. But not because they were Germans. But because they were humans."

Hutch nodded. "Can't blame you for feeling that way. Sometimes I hate them too."

Starsky smiled. "Hey, I remember the times you took up for me when people slurred me. I appreciate it."

Hutch's eyes held his partner's. That such a friendship could even exist was an anomaly. There had always been differences, but that never seemed to matter, and if anything, only made them closer.

It was a strange night, this one. They'd had many like this, where they seemed to be breathing for each other and as one, where spoken words were not necessary because they were reading each other's thoughts, and feeling each other's feelings, where there were no filters or barriers to their silent language.

"You think this group is really Jewish?" Hutch asked him. "Or do they want us to believe they are so we'll look in the wrong direction?"

"Maybe it's not a group, Hutch. Could be one person with a twisted grudge."

Hutch looked at his watch. "There are a lot of maybes and it's three in the morning. We need some shut-eye but . . . "

"I know. This seems too important to put off."

"Call Huggy while I'm researching. See if he can fish around for some information on anti-German activity."

"It's probably too underground for Huggy to know, but it wouldn't hurt to get him in on it."

Starsky padded quietly down the carpeted aisle, then turned around, whispering loudly to Hutch: "Psst!"

Hutch looked up.

Starsky made a motion with his hand as if her were drinking from a cup, silently asking Hutch if he wanted coffee.

Hutch shook his head no and pointed to a sign on the wall which read: No Food Or Drinks.

Starsky put a finger to his lips. "Sshh," he whispered mischievously, then tiptoed stealthily away.

Laughing, Hutch shook his head, knowing Starsky would be sneaking coffee in when he returned.

Starsky used a phone near the front desk to call Huggy. The librarian, built more like a bouncer, kept his eye on Starsky while he dialed.

Not in the mood for explaining himself, Starsky took out his badge and held it up for the librarian to see.

With a disgruntled snort the librarian returned to his newspaper, his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.

Starsky turned his back to the librarian to keep him from overhearing.

Huggy's phone rang ten times before he answered.

"This better be good," came his sleep-scratchy voice from the receiver.

"Huggy," Starsky whispered. "It's me."

"Well, Me, it's a little late for chattin', don't you think?"

"It's important."

"It's always is, dude. How may I be of service to you at 3:15 in the morning?"

"Are you awake?"

"Like a rooster."

"Then listen up. Me and Hutch are at the UCLA library lookin' up some stuff on Nazis for this case that got dumped in our laps. And I think . . . " Starsky glanced over his shoulder to find that the librarian had left the front desk, which was a relief because he didn't have to whisper now. "I think it's something big," he said in a regular tone of voice. "Somethin' new. We've got five dead Germans and we suspect they were killed by a group--probably Jewish--because they had some Nazis somewhere in the family."

"Payback is hell. Long overdue if you ask me."

"Huggy, these Germans didn't do anything wrong. Can they help what their families did a long time ago?"

"Okay, I'm with you. Go ahead."

"It could be a fledgling group. Or hell, there could be pockets all over the place, who knows?"

"That's a tall order. Not somethin' I'm likely to hear about from my contacts."

"I know. But we trust you. And we're desperate. And we know you won't leak a word about this case. And be careful, Huggy. We want to expose this person, or group, and catch the killers, but we don't want to jeopardize your safety."

"I second that motion. I'll be careful." There was a pause before Huggy asked, "Hey, Starsky, what makes you think this is so big?"

"Five victims so far. All mistaken as suicides at first. No one shred of physical evidence left behind. The victims are killed in their own homes. No sign of a struggle. I'd say they've been trained."

"KKK?"

"KKK's too sloppy. Everybody knows when they strike."

"Para-military group?"

"Possible."

"I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thanks. Catch you later."

Starsky hung up and went to the vending room for coffee, passing the librarian on the way.

"Thanks for the phone," Starsky told him, then stepped over to the coffee machine, depositing quarters and getting two cups of coffee. When he saw that the librarian had returned to reading the paper, Starsky crept quietly across the carpeted hall toward the cubicle where Hutch was working.

"Psst," Starsky whispered again. "Here's some coffee."

But Hutch was gone, and Starsky would have called his name, would have looked around for him, but he knew that would be fruitless because all his eyes could see were the splashes of bright red across the files, notebooks, and papers Hutch had been working on.

The coffee dropped unnoticed to the floor as Starsky turned and raced for the front desk

The librarian was just peeling a banana when Starsky flew up to him and grabbed his shirt, yanking him completely across the desk to the other side, shaking him.

"Did you see anything?" Starsky panted into his face.

The librarian's eyes widened at the live dynamite in front of him. "I--you--what--"

"What did you see? My partner was workin' back there and now his blood is all over the place, so I want to know did you see anything or hear anything--"

The librarian was bigger than Starsky but wasn't about to object to his method of questioning. "I don't know anything. I didn't see anybody at all. I didn't even go back there in your direction. We have two exits back there--"

"show me."

The librarian hustled to show Starsky the two exits near the cubicle where Hutch had been researching.

"Don't touch anything here," Starsky told the man. "This is a crime scene. Don't let anybody else touch the area either."

The librarian nodded.

Hutch's Magnum was on the floor, spotted with drops of blood, so either he'd tried to pull it on his attackers or was made to give it up.

Starsky ran up and down the walls of books looking for someone who might have witnessed the abduction, but the room was empty. No students at 3:30 a.m.

Starsky went to both exits. One led out into an empty parking lot. The other opened onto a park area with a gazebo, benches, and a fountain. Thee were no signs of a struggle at either. No blood, no disturbed shrubbery. Nothing.

Starsky ran outside, eyes scanning up and down the quiet campus street that ran along the library.

"HUTCH!"

Part of him knew it was pointless to call Hutch's name, but he couldn't help it. It was instinct.

"If you had something you thought was this big," Dobey snapped at Starsky, "why

didn't you tell me about it?"

They were near the cubicle where Hutch had been, the investigators gleaning the area for bits of evidence--blood samples, fingerprints, photos, possible fiber and hair samples.

Starsky was pacing and Dobey was chewing some Tylenols dry.

"We weren't sure what we had, Cap. We were just guessing."

"I've told you before about keeping me briefed." Dobey watched him pace, saw his face gradually turning ashen. "Starsky, what are you thinking?"

Starsky tried to keep his eyes off the blood-splattered desk and his mind on the facts, because if he allowed his eyes to see the sight, if he allowed his mind to absorb the impact, he would be too shaken to help his partner, and Hutch needed a level head thinking for him right now, not a basket case. "Like Hutch said, Hutchinson isn't a German name, so that tells me those psychos know us. They got him, not me. They left me alone because I'm Jewish. They made a clear statement. He must have been on their list all along. That they grabbed him after we were assigned the investigation is just a coincidence--icing on their cake. They got a bonus when they got Hutch. A German, plus the officer who's investigating them."

Dobey kneaded the back of his own neck. "Good God. It's four-thirty in the morning and we don't have a single lead as to who these monsters really are. He doesn't have a chance."

Starsky started for the front exit.

"Starsky, where are you going?"

"Huggy's. We're gonna find these ghouls and get Hutch back."

"It's too late."

"It's not too late."

Starsky shook his head no. "He has a chance."

"Starsky! I say it's too late! Look at that desk back there and then tell me it's not too late!"

Starsky kept walking, speaking over his shoulder. "They didn't get him in his own home, did they? They didn't hang him, did they? They could have killed him right here but they didn't. They took him out of here. So he has a chance."

Hutch slouched in a chair in a room that resembled the prop room of a theatre, full of old clothes, trunks, and furniture. His head was down and he couldn't raise it, nor was he able to do anything to stop the blood that dripped from his nose and mouth and onto his lap.

"Wake him up," he heard someone say, and a hand clutched his hair, pulling his head up.

Hutch gazed dopily at the four figures in front of him, who wore street clothes and black ski masks.

One figure patted his face. "You with us, you German dog?"

Hutch's eyes kept wanting to close, and his brain struggled to push words into his mouth. He couldn't talk or move, but he knew it was from more than just his confusion and injuries. He tried to move his leg but couldn't. Tried to wiggle a finger but couldn't. And he didn't understand why he was unable to straighten enough to sit up when he was trying as hard as he could. He couldn't feel the man's hand in his hair.

"We got you pretty much where we want you," one of the men told him as he patted Hutch's blood-stained cheek.

Hutch did not feel this either and was starting to realize with mounting dread and fascination that he was paralyzed, numb, that they had somehow wholly incapacitated him, leaving him without speech or movement. They could slit his throat and he would never feel it, break every bone in his body and would not be able to protest. Even if he could open his mouth to call for help, the sound would never escape.

(Where is Starsky? he wanted to ask them. Is he okay? Did you fucking hurt him too?

Because if you did, you are dead. You are already dead. But he couldn't even produce a whisper)

(What do you want? he wanted to ask them. But he already knew the answer. They wanted to kill him without him ever putting up a fight.)

He saw the blue star of David tattoo on one man's hand as it opened a small First Aid kit to draw out a hypodermic needle, and it was then that Hutch realized his hands weren't even bound, that both arms hung useless at his sides, and his slumping body would have fallen forward if it hadn't been for one of the men clutching the back of his shirt collar.

"You're not wearing a tie," one of the men said as he tugged on Hutch's shirt collar. "So we have to do something else. Especially since you think you know who we are. And there's nothing you can do about it. Can't run, can't fight, can't call for help. Isn't that the way you Nazis like to do it? Hitler enjoyed dispensing experimental drugs to us. How do you like the one we gave you?"

Hutch was in no pain because his body could not feel, but the mental anguish of knowing he could not defend himself was far more excruciating than any physical pain they could inflict on him.

"Our time has arrived," one of the masked figures told him. "We've been fighting anti-Semitism the wrong way. Politics won't end it, religion won't end it, war won't end it, peace talks won't end it. It's eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Payback. Revenge. Retribution. You godforsaken Nazis snuffed out six million of us during the Holocaust. We will settle the score, and we will do it one German at a time."

The man with the star of David tattoo on his hand pulled a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. "First thing we do is give you an identifying mark." He stepped close to Hutch, put one hand on his chest, then slowly pushed him backward until he was sprawled on his back in the chair, then meticulously slid the tip of the knife under each button, snipping them off one at a time, exposing his skin. "Remember the numbers you put on my people's arms?"

Hutch's eyes were on the man but his (Hutch's) expression didn't--and couldn't--change, but inside he was trembling with fear and was screaming Starsky's name over and over.

The man grasped Hutch's left wrist in his hand, pulling it out taut. "You don't deserve a number," he said with quiet distaste, and Hutch could only watch in dumb terror as he cut a swastika into the smooth underside of his lax forearm.

Starsky hurled Huggy's alarm clock against his bedroom wall.

"I told you to help me!"

Huggy was jarred from the bed by Starsky's voice. He jumped out of the bed, one eye squinting in sleep. "Man, I called a few people. They hadn't heard any--"

Starsky clutched the front of Huggy's T-shirt. "They got him, Hug. Those people got Hutch."

Huggy scowled in confusion. "Why didn't you say so?"

Starsky released him and picked up Huggy's clothes, shoving them at him. "You gotta help me. We gotta find him before it's too late."

Huggy wanted to tell him that there was little chance of finding out what Starsky wanted to know. This group was too professional and too organized to allow anyone on the outside a glimpse into their inner machinery. But Huggy didn't tell him that. He knew not to cross an agitated Starsky, especially when it concerned a missing Hutch.

Huggy pulled his clothes on. "Let's get to it."

The film projector whirred quietly as Hutch watched the black and white images on the pale wall across the room. He had no choice but to watch the grainy film of the routine activities in a Nazi prison camp, because the man with the star of David on his hand stood behind him and held his head upright between his hands so he could see it.

As Hutch watched the gruesome scene of Nazi soldiers piling nude, dead, emaciated Jewish bodies on top of one another in a single, huge grave, (he'd seen similar films before on TV documentaries and even real photographers that a Jewish professor of his had in college) he did the only thing he was physically capable of doing: He closed his eyes. And could not help but feel sympathy for the Jewish people, even for this group that held him today. They were justified, perhaps not in their actions toward him, but in their anger at the Nazis. He could understand why their hatred and craving for retribution was so consuming.

"You did this," hissed the man's voice from above and behind him, and Hutch realized he could feel the man trying to crush his skull between his hands.

The pain was crushing and terrible, but Hutch was elated, because that meant the drug they had paralyzed him with was now leaving his system. He could feel once again. Could feel the sharp pain in his forearm and the sticky blood where the man had carved the swastika. Could feel the throbbing in his face where they'd swung a golf club viciously across it at the library. Could feel the chilly air on his bare chest from where his shirt had been sliced open.

Hutch bit his tongue to keep from crying out. He didn't want the man to know he had regained the use of his body.

"Life for life," the man seethed between his teeth. "We'll move through this country like a silent plague and you Germans won't know what hit you. We'll strike when you least expect it. And it won't be just hanging. There will be accidents. Drownings. Overdoses. We don't have names, we can't be traced, our identities have been erased and replaced by fictitious ones. We are a thousand strong and we are growing. And you, my fine blond half-German friend, nosy detective, unfortunate Nazi bastard, once-decorated officer, respected hero, look at you now. You can't even wipe your fucking bloody nose."

Hutch reached up and grabbed the man's head in his hands, throwing him over his shoulder and onto the floor.

While the man was trying to climb to his feet, Hutch jumped from the chair and stumbled toward the door.

The man on the floor grabbed for his ankle but Hutch pulled away and kept going. Even his voice was returning, and he was able to speak in a hoarse whisper as he reached the door. "Fucker," he said over his shoulder, almost sobbing with relief if not surprise that he was getting away. "Mother fucker."

But he should have known the door would be locked. Should have known that they were smarter than that, that they were good at what they did and wouldn't be so careless as to leave an exit unsecured.

But by the time all of this occurred to him, the man was on his feet and plunging the hypodermic needle into his throat again.

Starsky drove the Torino recklessly through traffic.

Huggy held onto the dash. "Starsky, you're wasted. Why don't you let me drive? You must feel like a zombie by now."

It was dawn on that Saturday morning. Starsky ignored his friend and kept driving.

"They know us," Starsky said. "It's someone we know. They followed us to the library. Probably been following us for days or weeks--" He looked at Huggy, then swung the car into a U-turn, causing traffic to screech to a halt with honking horns and yelling, swearing drivers.

Huggy stared at him. "Starsky, I'd like to be clued in before I bid this world goodbye."

Starsky gripped the steering wheel and floored the gas pedal. "I think I know who it is."

Hutch came to, finding himself sprawled on his back on a table in the same room he'd been in before, knowing he was paralyzed again because of that queer, disembodied nothingness feeling he had in his body.

The hooded man bearing the Star of David leaned over him. "First rule to remember: Never try to escape. There are harsh penalties for that. Penalties that someone else will pay for you. A parent perhaps. Or perhaps that traitor partner of yours. He's not a true Jew. If he were, he wouldn't have a German for a friend."

(No! Hutch screamed at him, but it was only in his mind. Not my parents! And not Starsky! Please no!) (If you'll just let me talk. I'm a very good negotiator. I'll talk you out of this, make you understand your error, help you find another way, even voice my sympathy. I've been there. I know what one person is capable of doing to another. I've held ruination in my arms and tried to comfort it, wipe it out, make it better. Just let me talk. Let me talk my way out of this. Let me protect my mother and father and partner. I won't do it again. I swear. I promise. I won't try to leave. You can leave the door wide open and I won't try to run. You don't even have to paralyze me. I won't go anywhere. I'll stay in this room and you can do whatever you want to me, just leave my family and friend alone)

The Meyers boy was hosing off his sports car in the family driveway when Starsky braked the Torino to a halt in front of the two-story house.

The boy's face blanched and he turned to run when he saw Starsky running toward him.

"Whoa, man!"

Starsky grabbed the boy's jacket and drove him back against the garage door, holding him there.

"Don't man me! Where is he?!"

The boy's startled eyes were wide and gray, nothing like the hard-edge eyes that had glared at Starsky a month ago when he sat cockily behind his father's steering wheel.

"Who, my dad?"

Starsky slammed him against the door again. "My partner!"

The boy's face registered total surprise and confusion. "I don't know what you're--"

"You followed us last month, and you followed us last night, didn't you? You know what your mistake was? Slurring Hutch in front of me. It's so obvious now that you just couldn't wait to get your hands on my partner, you and your little skinhead friends."

The boy's pleading eyes latched onto Huggy's. "Honest. I don't know what you--I'm sorry, okay? For mouthing off to your partner. But I swear I didn't do anything to him. I don't know what you mean . . . " He looked at Huggy. "You gotta believe me. I didn't do anything. Yeah, I hate Germans. Nazis. For tryin' to wipe us from the face of the earth. I hate all Germans. But I wouldn’t kill one. I wouldn't kill anybody."

And then the boy was crying, blubbering like a baby, and Starsky realized that the boy was either a very good sociopath or he was telling the truth.

Huggy patted Starsky's shoulder. "I think he's straight. Let up."

Starsky released him and stepped away, leaning over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

Huggy held his hand palm up to the boy. "It's cool. If you didn't do anything, that's cool."

Starsky straightened and turned back around to the boy. "I don't expect you to want to help me find my partner, as you referred to him as a German dog. But I'm gonna ask you this question anyway: Do you know of any anti-Nazi, anti-German groups, cults, whatever, in the area? We're working on a case involving five dead Germans, and I think they want my partner to be number six."

The boy regarded him with skepticism. "For real?"

"Probably Jewish."

The boy studied the air for a very long time. He had calmed down enough to reclaim some of his casual cockiness.

"No," he said finally, looking from Huggy to Starsky. "I haven't heard of any groups like that." And his smile was faintly sinister. "And I wouldn't tell you if I had."

Hutch still lay on his back on the table. But hours hand passed since the shot wore off, and he could now feel the aches and pains seeping into his body.

His eyes searched the room. No one was here and the door was wide open, but he dared not try to leave again. Someone close to him would pay, and he couldn't let that happen. And there could be hidden cameras somewhere, or they could be standing right outside the door just waiting for him to try to escape.

The masked man wearing the star of David came into the room.

"Enjoying your stay?" he asked Hutch.

Hutch looked at him and tried to sit up, but the man shook his head no.

"Second rule" You don't do anything without my permission. And I say you can't sit up."

Hutch lay back down. "I know you hate me but--"

"Quiet. I didn't give you permission to talk."

Hutch's eyes took inventory of his captor, vaguely feeling that he had encountered the man before, even though he couldn't see the man's face.

The man slid his hunting knife from its sheath and stood beside Hutch, placing the tip of the knife to his throat and tracing lightly down his chest and stomach.

"I could slice you wide open," the man told him. "And you wouldn't stop me."

Hutch didn't move. He was strangely calm as his eyes stayed on the man's.

"You know why?"

Hutch knew why, but he wasn't about to answer after the man just told him he wasn't allowed to talk. Not after he had threatened to hurt his loved ones.

"I've conditioned you," the man told him. "Just like you conditioned the Jewish prisoners in the concentration camps. You learn to trust your captors. You learn to love them. Depend on them. Because we hold your life in our hands. We feed you or don't feed you. Beat you or don't beat you. Smile or don't smile at you. You know that from being a cop, don't you? You know that from dealing with kidnappers, hostages, and terrorists. And now you know from first-hand experience. You're at our mercy. We control you." He smiled. "Want me to prove it to you?"

The man put the knife back in its sheath and gripped the front of Hutch's shirt, pulling him to a sitting position.

"Go ahead," the man told him. "You're free to go."

Hutch sat with his head bowed.

The man nudged his arm. "Go on. Get out of here."

Hutch slowly shook his head no.

"Why not, German? I'm not stopping you."

Hutch raised his eyes to the man and shook his head no again.

"Don't look at me," the man told him, and Hutch dropped his eyes to the floor again.

The man smiled and spread his arms to the room. "What's the problem, Nazi? I don't even have my knife out. You can take me, can't you?"

Hutch sat very still, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, fearing he would upset the man and he would give him another shot or take it out on an innocent person.

And he sat that way, motionless with his head bowed and his eyes to the floor, even when the man left him alone in the room.

Dobey watched Starsky pace in front of his desk. "Starsky, you haven't slept in three days. You can't go on like this. You're going to end up in the hospital, and then you won't be able to look for Hutch at all."

Starsky ignored him. He paced in tight circles, hands on his hips. "I thought it was the kid," Starsky said tiredly, and his voice seemed to be the only part of him that showed signs of slowing down.

Huggy was asleep in one of the chairs before Dobey's desk.

"I thought it was the damn kids," Starsky repeated.

"Starsky, I've got a dozen men out looking for him. Go home and get some sleep. If they find him, they'll contact you."

Starsky looked at the snoring Huggy, then at Dobey. "When Huggy wakes up, tell him to catch up with me at my place. I'm gonna grab a shower and keep lookin'."

Before Dobey could reply, Starsky turned and left, noticing as he walked down the hall that his lack of sleep was catching up to him, that he was seeing colorful floaters in front of his eyes, that his ears were ringing, that his feet were heavy as if he wore lead shoes, that his mind was beginning to scramble like a bad TV channel.

But what he didn't notice was the man following him across the police parking garage and all the way to the Torino, and Starsky was sliding the key into the car door when he felt something cold and metallic pressing gently against the back of his neck.

"Come with us," a voice behind him said. "Do what we say and we won't hurt you."

Starsky sat in a chair with one hand handcuffed to a steel pipe on the wall beside him.

The room he was in was empty except for the chair he was sitting in, and a square steel cage the size of a doghouse on the floor across from him.

And he knew something was very, very wrong with Hutch when the masked man with the star of David tattoo led him into the room without Hutch so much as protesting the black dog collar and silver chain leash around his neck.

"Hutch!"

Starsky jumped from the chair but was restricted by the handcuffs.

The man with the tattoo shoved Hutch to his knees a few feet away from Starsky. Hutch did not raise his head. He waited passively while the man wound the leash around his hand, yanking it hard and jerking Hutch off balance, causing a yelp to escape him.

Starsky saw his swollen, bloody features, the engraved swastika on his forearm, the way his hair was cut close to his head, and lurched forward. "Fucker! Get that offa him! He's not an animal! You can't treat him like--" He strained to reach for Hutch, but he was just out of his grasp."

"Yes, I can," the man with the tattoo told him. "I can treat him like this. He's nothing but a German dog."

"He's a human being. You can't--"

"This Nazi animal and I have an understanding. He does whatever I say."

Starsky's eyes met Hutch's eyes. (What have they done to you?)

And Hutch knew it was a mistake to open his mouth. He knew he wasn't supposed to talk, but if it would be the last words he ever spoke, he would apologize to Starsky for getting him into this horrendous mess.

"I'm sorry," Hutch mouthed the words to him.

The man with the tattoo kicked Hutch savagely in the face, knocking him flat onto his back, blood pumping from his nose and running from his mouth, eyes turning upward as he passed out.

"Fucker!" Starsky cried as he strained and jerked on his wrist. "Leave him alone!"

The man with the tattoo pulled the small First Aid kit from his pocket and produced a hypodermic needle.

"No!" Starsky yelled as he struggled to get free. He pranced and shuffled from foot to foot as his right arm tried to reach for his partner. "Keep that FUCKIN' NEEDLE away from him!"

The man with the tattoo gripped the leather collar around Hutch's neck and pulled his limp body a few inches off the floor, pushing the needle into his throat.

"Hutch!"

The man with the tattoo released Hutch, who dropped bluntly to the floor, then walked over to Starsky, whose free hand was still yearning to reach Hutch.

"Your priorities are all wrong. Your loyalty is to the wrong person. He's the enemy, and it's a pity you don't see that. Traitor. You might as well be a Nazi. You certainly are cozy with this one. We'll make it so you'll wish you never knew this German dog. You won't make friends with another one."

Starsky pawed toward the man. "Bastard!" he yelled at him. "Come here! I'm gonna kill you!"

The man stepped smoothly to the side, just beyond Starsky's hand.

Starsky jerked furiously on his wrist. It was already cut bloody raw. "What did you give him, you prick? What was in the needle?"

The man with the tattoo chuckled and walked toward the door. "I've never seen such a Nazi lover. But we're hoping to correct that before this is all over with."

Dobey slammed his briefcase onto his desk and roared at Huggy. "What do you mean Starsky's gone?"

Huggy had both hands to his head as he walked Dobey's office. "I mean I went down to the garage and saw his car. He didn't go anywhere. Somebody got him."

Starsky strained so hard against the handcuff he thought his wrist might snap or his shoulder would dislocate.

"Hutch?"

The tattooed man hadn't returned, and Hutch still lay as he had fallen hours ago, flat on his back, eyes gazing emptily at the ceiling.

"Hutch? Can you hear me?"

Starsky wasn't sure why Hutch hadn't moved or spoken, but suspected the contents of the syringe was to blame.

"Hutch, come on. Answer me."

Starsky's outstretched, desperate hand was only inches from Hutch's unmoving one, so maddeningly close but so frustratingly far away.

"Hutch, come here. Talk to me. Take my hand. I'm right beside you. Reach up here. Come on. Give me your hand."

But Hutch lay frighteningly still.

"Hutch, please. Try. For me? Do it for me? I gotta make sure you're . . . "

And then the door was opening. The man with the tattoo carried in a serving tray. On it was a plate of stew, fresh bread, and a glass of milk.

"This is for you," the mad told Starsky as he set the plate of food on the floor next to the chair.

Starsky looked at the food, then the man. "What, you poison it?"

The man smiled. "I wouldn't poison you. You're one of us."

"I'm not one of you, and don't you say I am. Not all Jews feel like you do. I hate what the Germans did, but I don't want innocent people paying for something they didn't do."

The masked figure stared at him for a full minute, then turned and walked toward the door.

"Wait," Starsky told him. "Give this food to Hutch. I don't need it."

The man spoke without breaking stride. "That would be pointless. Paraplegics can't feed themselves."

And he went on out.

Starsky was out of the chair again, yanking and jerking on the handcuff.

"Fucker!" he yelled at the closed door. "That's why he won't come over here! Fucker! You paralyzed him! That's what was in the shot!"

Starsky's attention shifted from the man to Hutch, who was beginning to stir, his fingers moving weakly.

"Hey, Hutch?"

Starsky crouched down, straining vainly to reach his partner. "Hutch, come here. You're movin'. Come here, buddy. Get my hand and I'll pull you over."

But Hutch didn't. His eyes stayed on Starsky, but he dared not move his hand, as badly as he wanted to.

"Hutch, come here. Try. You got the handcuff key on you. We can get out of here."

Hutch's eyes hunted the room, then settled on Starsky again. He slowly shook his head no.

"Hutch, we have to try. They're gonna kill you. You have it in your pocket. Give me the key. Come on. Get it out."

And it was then that Starsky saw Hutch's eyes filling with tears.

"What is it, Hutch? They threaten to hurt me? Is that what they did? Is that why you won't come over here?"

Hutch swallowed and a sob caught in his throat, his eyes squeezing shut against his tears. His chest hitched with his labored sobbing.

"Hutch, don't cry. Don't worry about me. It's not me they want to hurt. Look at me, okay? I'm fine. They coulda killed me if they'd wanted to. They haven't touched me except to cuff me, and I can get us both out of here if you give me your key. Just put hour hand in you pocket. Small steps, right? Just like you told me about getting over Marcos. Just like my therapist said. Small steps. Slide your hand inside your pocket. That's all you gotta do. Just do that. Nothing will happen."

Hutch's hand slowly moved on the floor.

"That's it, Hutch. Go ahead."

Hutch's fingers came up to his right front pocket.

"Good, Hutch. You're doin' it. Go on."

But Hutch's hand paused and that's as far as his fingers would go.

"Hutch, go ahead."

Hutch made no move.

"Hutch, please."

But he didn't move again, and Starsky realized that his coaxing was futile, that Hutch belonged to his captors now, and not to him. That the man who had defied the mobsters in an Italian restaurant by going to his wounded partner's side, who would die to keep anyone from hurting him, could not be persuaded to put his hand in his pocket, even though it meant freedom and life for both of them.

The Meyers boy stared at the list he held in his hand. He'd found it in earlier that morning in his father's old cedar trunk, thinking he'd go through his father's souvenirs (high school year books, track medals, community service awards, letters of honor, photos of him in his judge's chambers), but the souvenirs he found there made his skin creep with secret shame: Souvenirs of hatred and murder. Photos of dead men hanging by their necks. Locks of blond or graying blond hair in clear baggies. What looked like gold fillings. Vials of a clear substance that the boy did not touch. And a list of German names.

(Yeah, I hate all Germans, but I wouldn't kill one. I wouldn't kill anybody)

(Son, hatred is wrong. We're to love all people. But you must understand. Nazis aren't real people. They're not human. They couldn't be. They are animals. Demons sent straight from hell. And to hell they must return. We must do god's will and purge their seed from the face of the earth)

One name stood out from the others. One name that he recognized.

Kenneth Hutchinson.

With a shaky breath and an even shakier hand, he reached for the kitchen phone.

Many hours later Starsky was awakened by the sound of Hutch whimpering in his sleep.

He leaned forward in the chair, reaching for Hutch again, but the handcuffs would only allow him to go so far.

"Hutch, you okay? Wake up, buddy."

Starsky's hand was a mere two inches from Hutch's. "Hutch, talk to me. It's okay. Just a dream."

Hutch's head rolled restlessly on the floor, a small cry forming in his throat.

Starsky could hear footsteps approaching outside the door.

"Sshh. Hutch, don't make any noise. He's comin'."

But Hutch was lost in his fitful dream.

The door opened and the man with the Star of David tattoo stepped inside.

"Did I say you could make a sound?" he asked Hutch as he kicked him in the side.

Hutch cried out and reflexively doubled up on his side, body wanting to retch but only producing a dry heave.

Starsky was tramping from foot to foot like a distraught pony in his effort to reach his partner.

"Stop it!" he yelled at the man. "He was havin' a nightmare! He didn't mean it!"

The man grabbed the black collar at Hutch's throat and yanked him to his feet. Into Hutch's face he yelled, "You don't have a nightmare unless I say you can have a nightmare!"

Hutch's knees dipped and he started to sag, but the man jerked him back up.

"Do you hear me?"

Hutch nodded, holding to the man's sleeves to stay on his feet.

"Say 'Yes, sir'."

"Yes, sir."

"And take your hands off me. I didn't say you could touch me."

Hutch's hands came away from the man's sleeves. Without support, Hutch sank to his knees again.

Starsky spit at the man. "Fuck you, you bastard. He isn't a Nazi. He's innocent."

"Like we were."

"What did he ever do to you?"

"What did we ever do to them?"

"You can't punish him for something he didn't do."

"YES I CAN!"

"YOU'RE NOT A REAL JEW! YOU'RE JUST A MURDERER! A REAL JEW CAN FORGIVE!"

The man trembled in rage as he took the First Aid kit from his pocket.

"No!" Starsky shouted at him. "Don't do that to him again!"

The man withdrew the hypodermic needle. "Forgive?" he whispered icily as he pushed the needle into Hutch's throat. "Can you forgive me for this?"

Hutch gripped the man's sleeves again, trying to stay on his feet, trying to keep his legs from buckling but the paralysis moved like sluggish mercury through his body, and it was at this horrifying sensation that he opened his mouth and let out a long heartbreaking howl of fear and isolation.

The man held Hutch by the collar in one hand, while the other hand fumbled at the combination lock on the cage that was no bigger than a doghouse.

"Don't!" Starsky yelled, tugging relentlessly on his arm while trying to read the numbers the man was using for the combination. "Please don't put him in there."

"Denounce this Jew," the man told Hutch as he worked the combination lock, trying to open it. "He's too good for you. You have no right to be associating with him. Denounce him and I won't put you in here."

Even though his neck was losing muscular control, Hutch managed a small negative shake of his head.

The man let Hutch drop facedown on the floor, then drew his knife and walked over to Starsky. Hutch tried to raise his head but couldn't, so he used his last ounce of strength to stop the man from touching Starsky. (Just words. I don't mean them. Starsky knows that. Go ahead and say them. If you don't, he'll hurt Starsky, or your parents. You know he will).

"Okay," Hutch croaked faintly. "I'll say it. Don't hurt him."

The man walked back to Hutch. "I want you in the cage when you say it."

"No!" Starsky yelled. "You said you wouldn't put him in there if he denounced me."

The man smiled at Starsky. "I lied." He nudged Hutch's side with his boot. "Get in there while you can still move. I'll cut his throat if you don't."

With great effort Hutch inched into the cage and curled up into the confines of it on his side. The small space would not allow no other position. Even if he weren't paralyzed, he would not have the room to fully sit up or extend his legs.

"Now say it," the man said as he closed the door and locked it. "Denounce him."

"I . . . "

Starsky looked away.

(Just words, Starsky. You know I don't mean them. You know I'm saying this for you)

(But the words were still hard to say)

(They were the hardest words he'd ever had to say in his life)

"I denounce you," Hutch whispered shakily, then gave a feeble kick of anger at the cage door.

Starsky closed his eyes.

The man smiled at Hutch. "Say 'I never knew you'."

Hutch wanted to turn his head when he said it, wanted to cover his eyes with his hand in shame, but the paralysis had settled into his tissues and all he was able to do was gasp the words, "I never knew you."

Captain Dobey stormed into the courtroom while a jury trial was underway, making his way down the center aisle and approaching the bench where a female judge was seated.

Two bailiffs moved forward but the judge held up her hand to stop them.

"Yes, Harold?"

Dobey leaned over the bench to speak privately to her. "Judge Meyers isn't having court today?"

She shook her head no. "He had some business out of town."

Starsky pawed at the large rat that was scurrying along Hutch's arm and yelped in disgust. as he knocked the rodent back outside the cage.

"Son of a bitch!"

The rat scurried into a hole in the wall.

Starsky also stomped on the roaches whenever they found their way too close to Hutch's defenseless form.

The only good thing about Hutch being in the cage was that he was closer to Starsky.

Starsky was able to reach through the bars and lay his hand on Hutch's head, even though he knew Hutch couldn't feel it.

"Hutch, I know you're scared. I'm scared too."

Starsky felt Hutch stirring beneath his hand, heard a soft moan in his throat.

"You feelin' things again, Hutch?"

Hutch didn't answer, but Starsky could see his mouth opening as he tried to speak.

"What's the matter? Can you tell me?"

Hutch was becoming increasingly agitated, his hand opening and closing. He sobbed something but Starsky wasn't able to make out what he said.

Starsky leaned down closer to Hutch's head. "What, Hutch? What is it? What's wrong?"

His whisper was faint but full of shame. "I wet my pants." His hand came up to cover his eyes.

Starsky closed his eyes. "Hutch, you couldn't help it."

Hutch was sobbing uncontrollably now, talking nonsensically, severely restricted in his small prison. Starsky gripped his hand. "Sshh. It's okay, Hutch. Listen to me. He's a sick monster, okay? So what he does and says to you doesn't change who you are inside."

Hutch began to kick on the bars with his feet. The hand that wasn't holding onto Starsky's was gripping one of the bars and trying to shake it.

Starsky struggled to keep his tears at bay. He put his mouth as close to Hutch's ear as he could. "Sshh. Listen to my voice, Hutch. I'm gonna take you to another place, but the only way you can go is to listen to my voice."

Hutch's hand still gripped the bar, but was no longer trying to shake it.

"Hutch, close your eyes and go to this place with me. It's okay. It's a nice place."

Hutch quit kicking the bars and closed his eyes.

"We're goin' to the ocean, Hutch. Your favorite place. And the water's really blue there today, and the sound of the rolling waves could put you right to sleep. The sun is golden and warm on your skin, and it's like time is no more, like forever."

Hutch's sobbing was dying down to mere sniffing sounds now.

"Nobody else is around, and you're just layin on some flat rock like a big lazy lizard just listenin to the waves and feelin' the sun and the breeze on your face, and it's so quiet, even the seagulls are quiet today, and the whole place belongs to you."

Hutch's breathing was becoming quieter. Starsky released Hutch's hand to stroke his startlingly short hair. "Stay in that place for a while, Hutch."

And Hutch must have gone there, because Starsky was able to move his hand to Hutch's right front pocket for the handcuff key without so much as a peep from him.

Captain Dobey stared at Huggy across the bar as if he'd grown a third eye. "Judge Meyers has a what?"

"A small theatre. Word is he opens it up for college kids in the summer so they can put on some plays. He's run it for years."

"Do you know where this place is?"

"Does a fish swim?"

Starsky was dozing in the chair when the door opened and the man with the Star of David tattoo came into the room carrying a serving tray which held a plate of molded bread and a glass of dirty water.

"Here, Nazi seed," he said as he set the tray on the floor next to the cage. "Enjoy your last meal."

Hutch did not comment. The man kicked Hutch in the back between the bars. "Eat!"

Hutch cried out in pain, his hand finally but hesitantly reaching for the small piece of molded bread.

The man looked at Starsky. "Did you know he has three Nazi soldiers in his ancestry? Not one. Not two. But THREE!"

"I'm sorry," Hutch whispered as he looked directly at the man. "I didn't know." He closed his eyes and reluctantly placed the molded bread in his mouth.

"SORRY?!" the man roared at him. In a fit of rage he grabbed the leather collar around Hutch's neck and jerked his head back against the bars, cinching the collar viciously tight. "YES! YOU ARE SORRY! A SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING!"

Hutch struggled in the confines of the cage, clutching first at the choking collar, then at the man's hands, then the bars of the cage, his frantic eyes locking into Starsky's for help.

He gasped for breath but wasn't getting any. His hands slipped from the bars to dangle at his sides, his eyes a faint, tearful blue against his red face.

"NAZI PIG!" the man raved at his dying captive.

"STOP IT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" Starsky screamed at him, and this time when he jerked against the handcuffs, his wrist slipped cleanly free, and he charged toward the man like a young furious bull, and there was a sickening crunching sound and a splash of blood as Starsky drove the man's nose up into his brain.

The man flopped over on his back. Starsky grabbed the man's pistol from his holster and pulled off three efficient shots as the three associates charged through the door. They dropped one by one as if in a shooting gallery.

"Hutch?"

Starsky went to the cage and worked the combination numbers he'd memorized, then reached into the cage for Hutch, who was huddling and holding his throat.

"Hutch, come on out of there. It's over. They're dead now."

Hutch's voice was a raspy whisper. "Can't move."

Starsky carefully took him under the arms and pulled him outside the cage, finding that Hutch had been cramped for so long that he couldn't sit up straight, or straighten out, or stand. He was bent over like a crippled old man as Starsky put both arms around him to help him from the room. Hutch clung to him like a drowning man, sobbing weakly.He could do nothing to keep his tears from dripping onto the floor.

"It's over, buddy. Let's get you out of here."

Hutch stopped up short. "Wait."

Starsky bent over to look at his face. "What is it?"

Hutch looked around at the man with the tattoo on his hand. "Take his mask off. Take all their masks off."

"Hutch, are you sure you--"

"Just do it."

Starsky left Hutch crouching by the wall, and walked back to the man with the tattoo, slowly working the mask from his head.

Hutch leaned his head against the wall, his breath catching in his throat. "Judge Meyers."

Starsky removed the mask on the man closest to him. "It's Bernstein," he said quietly. "That's why he and Anderson weren't "getting anywhere" on the case. They were deliberately turning their heads, calling all the murders suicide as a smokescreen."

Hutch put a sleeve across his eyes. "Oh hell," he sobbed with fresh tears.

Starsky removed the last two, whose faces were not familiar to him.

And then Dobey appeared in the doorway with Huggy. The captain surveyed the room and then went to Hutch, crouching beside him and squeezing the back of his neck. "Hutch, what in God's name?"

Hutch didn't look at him. His head was bent down at its painful angle and all he could do was reach for his captain, clutching him around the neck and weeping into his broad shoulder.

Dobey patted his back and cleared his throat. "Don't worry, Hutch. If there are any of these bastards left, we'll find them. I think Anderson knows more than he's telling. He's not one of them, but I think he knows."

Huggy knelt with Starsky. "Is Hutch gonna be okay?"

Starsky nodded. "Hutch is Hutch. He'll find a way."

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